


The Lion and the Sun

by disasterhawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Circle Mage Bethany Hawke, Circle of Magi, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Dynamics, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Not Actually Unrequited Love, One Shot, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Quick Burn, Qunari, That Hole In Cullen's Roof
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24037954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disasterhawke/pseuds/disasterhawke
Summary: Called to Skyhold to assist in caring for the Inquisitor Herah Adaar's newly acquired rebel mages, Senior Enchanter Bethany Hawke is uncertain what awaits her. Not least because Varric has neglected to tell her that the man who once saved her life, the Templar to whom she surrendered herself years ago, is now Commander of the Inquisition's army. Skyhold is a nesting ground for the unexpected.Not all of those unexpected things are good.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Hawke, Bethany Hawke/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	The Lion and the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> The major character death warning on this story is for a death that can occur in canon.
> 
> There is sexual content, but it is non-descriptive/not remotely explicit/appropriate for the rating.

It’s a long journey, but you don’t mind. With the madness that the world’s become, there’s something comforting in the tense but monotonous wending of a few weeks on the road. You have to stop multiple times to rest the horses - you were only able to get three of them, and whilst the pack horse isn’t doing badly, the mounts carrying you and Ines are struggling. Not that either of you is a particularly weighty burden, but - from what Ines has told you, at least - you strain them nonetheless.

You’re not sure what you would’ve done without her. She has been an unexpected friend to you the past few years, most of all since the destruction at the Divine’s Conclave - there are few of you Aequitarians left now, and even fewer who remain loyal to the Circle. After all, your College did vote to fight the Templars in the first place. Somehow, amongst all this, it is not a surprise that Ines is one of the ones who survived. You cannot imagine a world without this sharp, no-nonsense force of nature, who reminds you every day of just how wise she is in unexpected ways.

After all, the only reason you know how to put the saddle on the damn horse is because she showed you how. Slowly. Multiple times. With half a dozen lectures about your weak, noblewoman's hands to boot.

“There y'are, Bethany,” she says then, drawing you out of your thoughts with a gloved hand raised towards the horizon. “Tha' must be it.”

“Oh, Maker,” you exhale.

Skyhold is - huge. There is no other way to describe it. It reminds you of the Gallows in an odd way; it has that presence, the sense of standing no matter what. Of course, you saw the Gallows rent asunder, so perhaps that’s not the most helpful comparison. Vivienne had not done Skyhold justice in her letter. Banners flutter either side of the almighty archway that you lead the exhausted horses through, one bearing the Inquisition’s heraldry, the other that of the Chantry.

It’s evident that people come and go through the archway frequently - for whilst you are stopped by the soldiers guarding it, no one pays you much mind once you’ve entered. Bundled up as you are, neither you nor Ines look much like mages, but even if you did it wouldn't be a problem. The courtyard you enter into (if it can even be called that, given its size) is crawling with the very mages you've been asked here to help.

You hadn't expected Vivienne's letter, and from what little you know of the Game you had intended to refuse immediately. It was not like you knew her well, though she seemed to know a great deal about you - including the years you spent as an apostate, which she mentioned quite pointedly. But then Marian had told you Varric was here, and Varric had sent you a dozen letters telling you all about it, and...well, you don't pass up a chance to hug your favourite dwarf. It's not like you get many of those chances. Besides, after several years of trying not to get caught up amongst the rebels, you’ve done enough hiding.

There is something in you that longs to explore this strange and bustling place, to get lost like you’re in a city once more, but - much like in Kirkwall - you don't remain anonymous for long. You've just gotten your mounts seen to and are being led towards the main building when a woman in Seeker armour charges towards you with intent. Your heart leaps from your chest. That sense you always have of the Fade surges in your ears, a roaring presence that does nothing to dampen the sound of your own rushing heartbeat.

"You!" the woman intones, pointing at you so intently that you instinctively check you've still got access to your magic. "You are the Champion's sister! The mage!"

You look to Ines for help, but she's already wandered off. Knowing your luck, she's spotted yet another plant native to the snowy climate to catalogue.

So much for solidarity.

But you did not survive years in the worst Circle in all of the Free Marches without learning something. All Templars - and Seekers are just as bad - expect you to be rebellious or meek and nothing inbetween. They do not expect you to be polite, and so that is what you have always been, and that is what has always worked.

You smile, holding out a hand. "That would be me. Hello there. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage." 

The woman ignores the hand sternly. "I am Cassandra Pentaghast. The -"

"Right Hand of the Divine, yes? I'm sorry for your loss." 

This seems to catch the Seeker off guard, and she pauses, head bowed. It might've been a few months since Divine Justinia's death, but that's nothing to grief. You would know. You’ve grieved for enough people over the years.

"I - thank you. I was not expecting you in Skyhold, Miss Hawke.” She reaches out and clasps your still-outstretched hand, belatedly but firmly. “May we expect your sister as well?"

You shake your head, even though Varric's already told you otherwise, because Seeker Cassandra's hastily appended question is a little too pointed for your liking. "I do not think so. And it's Senior Enchanter, please. I have come on Circle business, to assist Madame de Fer. If you'll excuse me, I would hate to have to tell her that you delayed me from meeting her."

The Seeker does not hide her surprise, at least, and she lets you pass. You make a mental note to tell Varric he didn't do the woman justice. Her intensity would have rivalled Meredith. At least you haven’t lost your touch at smoothly exiting conversation with Templars and Chantry sisters.

After that it becomes particularly chaotic. Vivienne is everything you remember from your brief meetings, but moreso - it seems leading the remaining loyal mages has only served to exacerbate her overwhelming sense of righteousness. In a slightly terrifying way, it's somewhat endearing. It suits her. And whilst you might not entirely agree with her desire to return the Circles to how they were, if there's one thing the mages need right now, it's some sense of cohesion.

You are swept up immediately into updates and a tour and introductions, all of which occur simultaneously. You find yourself extremely grateful that you were warned about the Inquisitor - meeting a qunari unexpectedly might have caused you to do something embarrassing - and delighted that you hadn't realised just how many mages yet lived. The rebel mages, as Vivienne insists on continuing to call them, are a strange mixture of skittish, belligerent and subdued, further cementing your belief that you've been brought here to serve as a diplomatic buffer between them and Vivienne.

By the time you've been shown to your room, where Ines remains nowhere to be seen, the soles of your feet feel entirely separate to the rest of your body. Left alone, you pull off your boots with a groan - but only for long enough to change your socks. You really should find Ines. In this weather, she’ll probably get frostbite before she admits it’s time to come inside and warm up. For a woman who knows so much about the outdoors, she’s stubborn at acknowledging her limitations within it.

The door from your corridor leads into the battlements, which seems a good enough vantage point to try and spot your fellow Senior Enchanter from. The light is starting to go, but it's no worse than Lowtown was at night. You refresh the warming barrier around you and step out into the late afternoon, making your way along the pale stone wall.

"Maker's breath - Bethany?"

Later, you will maintain that you absolutely did not gasp like an alarmed apprentice, but you will be lying. Surely Varric would have told you. He would have said something!

But no. Varric would absolutely tell you only what he thought you definitely needed to know - and Varric’s flair for the dramatic extends to that gentle, light manipulation of his friends, too. He hasn’t told you  _ on purpose _ .

"Knight-Captain!" you exclaim in surprise, the not-gasp replaced by laughter. "What in Andraste's name are you doing here?"

Cullen crosses the gap between you in three quick strides, running one hand through his hair. He's grown it, you realise. He looks older, too, far more than he should. But the most striking thing is that there is not an ounce of Templar in the armour he's wearing.

He stumbles as he reaches you, not losing his footing, but looking as if he was going to take an extra step that he decides against. "It's not - I'm not - I could ask the same thing of you, Enchanter."

You smile. "It's Senior Enchanter, actually."

"You are the mage that Vivienne has brought in to help with the rebels," Cullen realises aloud, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword. It's a much more casual stance than you remember from him - so much so that the readiness it displays entirely fails to make you nervous.

"I am. And you're quite well informed. I suppose neither of us have escaped responsibility despite the sky tearing open?"

Cullen chuckles, a warm sound that only serves to make him look even less like the man you remember from Kirkwall. "Actually, I am the Commander of the Inquisition's forces."

You're going to have words with Varric. That dwarf would never leave out such a detail unintentionally. No, he's done this to screw with you in some way. You'll just have to find out how. And punish him for it. If only Marian were here - she was always much better at that sort of thing. Whenever you'd tried to join in pranks you'd had no good ideas and gotten the giggles the moment the game was afoot.

"That is - congratulations. No wonder you look so exhausted,” you reply - then think better of it the moment the last word leaves your mouth.

Good work, Bethany.

But he smiles at you, a smirk that curls up one side of his scarred lip as he tilts his head. "Am I truly so obvious? I assure you I am quite well."

You're pretty sure he looked less haggard when he was pushing you into a row boat on the Gallows docks. But it would probably not be diplomatic to mention it. Marian would have said it, which is generally an excellent indication not to.

"I'm pleased to hear it."

"If I may be honest with you, Senior Enchanter, I'm rather glad to see it's you. Madame de Fer is an impressive woman, but the mages the Inquisitor has taken on have little respect for her. I fear that without assistance, she will never get them under control."

"If I may be honest with  _ you _ , Commander, I suspect the problem is that the Grand Enchanter does not respect  _ them." _

Cullen’s face shifts through several unflattering expressions before he reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “I am so glad you are here, Bethany.”

Considering it’s begun to snow, it’s oddly warm. It must be the surprise. You’re just pouring a bit too much mana into the warming barrier. That’s all. Especially the area around your face. Clearing your throat, you glance over the edge of the wall and - to your great relief - spot Ines chatting to someone in an oddly wide-brimmed hat.

Your polite exit is just as successful - even if you do feel Cullen’s eyes on your back the entire time you make you way over to Ines.

\---

An entire fortnight passes, however, before you see the Commander again. Vivienne’s work ethic is as rigorous as her attention to etiquette, and she has you hard at task immediately. You find yourself not minding, because for an organisation as powerful as the Inquisition, things appear to be...well, something of a shambles. Half of Skyhold turns out to be rotten or rubble, there isn’t enough food for the people who were here  _ before  _ all of the rebel mages arrived, and let’s not even begin to talk about the shortage of adequate winter attire. A thin robe does not a windbreak make.

Vivienne observes you intently, evidently devoting herself wholly to assessing you during your first week. You hold your head high and do what kept you alive in Kirkwall: administrate with the same fervour that your sister fights with. With a good amount of record keeping, a few bribes to Varric to let you know the most efficient routes through the requisition system, and one  _ very _ useful afternoon tea with Ambassador Montilyet, you manage to get enough beds sorted at the very least.  _ And _ the mages are even organised in such a way that they won’t murder one another within the first month. The Ambassador had been particularly delighted to help you turn her seating planning skills to a new purpose.

“Senior Enchanter,” Vivienne pronounces on your eighth day in Skyhold, “I confess myself astonished that the Kirkwall Circle did so poorly with you present there.”

You address this the same way you do any time someone mentions the Gallows: you do not think about it. You do not think about the First Enchanter’s bloated abomination of a form, you do not think about the children that you and Cullen did not manage to get out safely, and you definitely do not think of your sister’s expression as she watched her city burn.

“Sadly, Lady Vivienne,” you lament, pushing a curl behind your ear, “I fear even I cannot defeat blood magic with listmaking. Should I happen upon a method, I will let you know.”

She laughs, and you pointedly do not think about how wrong it is to suggest that Kirkwall fell just because of blood magic, and go to find Ines so that she can settle your roiling stomach with a lilting prattle about the lamentable state of the Inquisitor’s garden.

\---

You encounter Herah Adaar just once, in that very garden, the same day that you see Cullen again. The Herald of Andraste is knelt, her hulking form curled around a pot of royal elfroot, gently plucking stray weeds from within it. Stood at her side, Ines is lecturing her on the merits of co-planting. Something that she is doing, you note, with every ounce of her usual disdain - apparently not even running the most powerful military force in Thedas will get you out of that one.

“I apologise for interrupting, your worship,” you say as you approach, curtseying in what you hope is the appropriate way. “Senior Enchanter Arancia’s presence has been requested by Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

“What does that old bag want now?” Ines grumbles, earning an astonished look from the Inquisitor.

You clear your throat. “She would like your advice on the alchemical curriculum for the apprentices.”

Ines’s eyes gleam. She’s never liked Fiona. “Oh, I’ll give ‘er my advice, alright. You, Inquisitor. Get some embrium in that pot, if you want it to proliferate. It’ll take all the heat out of the soil like the elfroot wants.”

And then she is gone, not a whirlwind like your sister, but a punctuated disappearance that you’re certain spells Fiona’s doom. Another mess you’ll have to clear up later on. Ah well. It can’t be helped - Fiona really  _ does  _ need advice. You can’t leave the apprentices without an education forever, and the work is helping to ground the Grand Enchanter’s position in Skyhold. Former Grand Enchanter, you suppose you should say. Old habits.

“You are Varric’s friend.”

The deep, rich voice catches you offguard, and you turn to look at the Inquisitor in surprise. “I am, yes,” you say, laughing joyously.

The Tal-Vashoth frowns, knotting her dark grey skin with deep lines. “I did not intend my statement to be amusing.”

“Oh, I know, it’s just - I have spent so much of my life being the Champion of Kirkwall’s sister. For once, it’s lovely to be seen as something else. I’m Bethany, your worship. Bethany Hawke. Vivienne introduced us, a few weeks ago?”

There is an awkward pause during which neither of you offers to shake hands. You’re not sure if one does shake hands with the Herald of Andraste, and you’re also not sure if you’re willing to shake hands with a qunari, not even on a second introduction.

“I remember now. I am sorry. They introduce me to many people, and I am not good with names. Or faces. Or...people.”

She reminds you of Fenris, a fact that you must never reveal to him - there’s nothing he would hate more than being compared to a saarebas - and that makes you respond with a warm smile.

“For all that I spend my days working with people, your worship, I have to say I...understand that completely.”

Herah looks at you intently. It’s a little unnerving, but you hold yourself steady as best you can. Hopefully she doesn’t see your hands shaking. “If you do not wish to be seen always as someone’s sister,” the Inquisitor says, thoughtfully, “what do you wish to be seen as?”

Goodness. What a question. It strikes you so unexpectedly that you find yourself considering it carefully.

You’re happy to be seen as a member of the Circle, much to your astonishment. As soon as you’d ended up in the Gallows, you’d quickly found that there was a great comfort in being around people like you. Marian had never quite been able to understand it. She had never forgiven you for handing yourself in. But there had been a hole inside you since Father had died, and in the Circle it finally felt like it had been filled. Yes, it was a prison, and yes, you lived every day in fear, but...it was not so black and white as you had expected. There were beautiful things about it too. Precious things. Those are also rubble, now.

You also like it when people acknowledge that you are in fact quite a powerful mage. Here everyone knows you for your skill at organising, at logistics. But for a little while in Kirkwall, alongside your sister, you were known - amongst your found family, at least - for being naturally gifted at the Schools of Spirit and the Arcane. Oh, you could hurl fireballs too, of course, but you had always preferred the quieter magic. The clever magic. And if that happened to also be the magic that could rip you apart from the soul outwards - well, sometimes people needed that.

A part of you wonders if there should be more to this. If you should have some kind of hobby for which you wished to be known, or some great deed. But you lived for so long with your magic hidden. There is freedom in the shackles you have chosen to keep, now that you can wear them on display.

But you do not say any of these things to the Inquisitor. Instead you just smile, and say, “Myself.”

The qunari inclines her head. “A luxury that you should treasure,” she replies, with a little bitterness that you can understand. You don’t envy her, not at all, just like you never envied Marian.

“Ah, there you are, Inquisitor. I’m sorry I’m late, I - Bethany. Good afternoon.”

Cullen steps into the garden with cheeks flustered from the cold and even deeper bags under his eyes than the last time you saw him. He appears to be wearing no extra layers, however, which makes you wonder how he’s not shivering in this weather. You’re only holding it together because of your barrier, and the Inquisitor - well, the Inquisitor is a qunari. Her skin is thicker than your little finger.

The qunari in question looks between the two of you. “I did not realise that you knew each other.”

“Commander Cullen is the only reason I am alive,” you say promptly, before he can try and explain in a way that fails to do it justice. “He helped my students and I escape from the Circle in Kirkwall shortly before it fell.”

“Only for you to immediately return to it!”

You flush and look at the ground. “My sister needed me and the children were safe then,” you say simply, and resume not thinking about what she needed you for. “Nonetheless, Inquisitor, that is how we know one another.”

“In a manner of speaking, at least,” Cullen grumbles, though there is a faint hint of a smile in his expression. “I do apologise for keeping you waiting, Inquisitor.”

Waiting for what, you wonder? But then you follow his gesture to the chess set in the centre of the courtyard. He’d tried to teach you, once, when you’d first surrendered yourself to the Templars. He was the only one that you’d known then, and as Templars went he hadn’t been terrible - even if he had told Marian you weren’t a real person - so it had made sense to stick to him for a little while. You’d managed that, but the chess hadn’t stuck. You couldn’t stand the thought of getting something wrong, so had barely tried at all.

“It’s fine,” Herah says, glancing over at you. “But if the two of you wished to catch up, don’t let me get in the way.”

“And miss a chance to see you get utterly trounced at chess, Inquisitor?” you remark with a smile. “What a waste that would be.”

Something feral that makes your stomach squirm twists in the Inquisitor’s face. She has a gnarly scar that bisects her cheek, clearly badly healed, and when she grins it creases halfway up. You do not think about the Arishok’s face.

“That’s certainly what he’s hoping for, anyway,” Herah says, taking a seat.

He does trounce her, the first time anyway - in the second the Inquisitor manages to put up a slightly better showing. The third time she enlists your help, which only serves to make things go far  _ worse.  _ You warn her this is going to happen, but she doesn’t listen.

When the last game is over and the Inquisitor turns to leave, you ask her: “What do  _ you  _ wish to be seen as?”

Tilting her head, the qunari looks down at her left hand. The Anchor flickers with magic that sets static running over your skin, as if all the magic in your body was singing like a tuning fork. You wonder if it feels like that for Herah, too. If she feels it every second of every day. When she wakes. When she sleeps.

“More than this,” she says quietly, her voice too small for so large a woman. She smiles at you lopsidedly, and disappears through the garden.

From across the chessboard, Cullen smiles as well. “You’ll like her,” he says.

You agree.

\---

“Pssst. Sunshine.”

You roll your eyes to the heavens. For someone so good at sneaking about, Varric is  _ terrible _ at sneaking about. Half a dozen people in the library have turned to look at you now, eyes passing to where he’s scuttling up to the top floor.

“I’ll be back when I can,” you murmur to Fiona, who nods distractedly and continues to look at the tutoring assignments. There’s no solution there for her to find; you just can’t make a schedule work when half your tutors can vanish with the soldiers at any moment, deployed to this and that.

Varric is halfway across the battlements when you manage to catch up with him, scuttling in his dwarvish way whilst waving one hand over his shoulders. He’s grinning in an impish way that you haven’t seen since the last time he dragged you to play Wicked Grace in the tavern. You can’t work out why - until you climb the steps at the corner of Skyhold and see what’s waiting for you there.

Your feet have left the ground so fast you might as well be flying down there. Fear of stumbling on the steps down to this secluded corner just doesn’t touch you in the slightest. It doesn’t matter. The  _ only _ thing that matters is this: putting your arms around your sister.

“Maker,” Marian laughs, picking you up and spinning you round. “I missed you too, you big lummox.”

When you let her go - which is after a long moment - you turn round and smack Varric hard on the shoulder. “What is it with you and keeping things secret from me? Can I not have just  _ one _ thing to look forward to?”

“Ah, Sunshine. But then I wouldn’t get to see your face the moment the joy hits all at once.”

You grab him by the cheeks and kiss him soundly on the forehead. “I love you, you ridiculous dwarf.” Then you turn to your sister. “What in Andraste’s name are you doing here?”

“You mean  _ other _ than giving my sister a damn hug?”

You’ve taken her hand again - letting go of her for too long seems wrong, as if now she’s here you could never let go again. It always feels like this. You and she and Gamlen are the only ones left; holding her hand feels like holding Carver’s. Mother’s. Father’s. It has to, because there’s no other option. They rest between your palms, an inescapable trap of grief and love.

“Yes,” you laugh, holding tightly. “You do realise that half the people here want you dead?”

Varric chuckles, leaning on the wall. “Actually, I’m pretty sure the Seeker wanted you for the Inquisitor’s job, Chuckles.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” Marian says, at the same time as you exclaim, “No!”

“She tried the Hero of Ferelden first, but it turns out Grey Wardens are really good at vanishing.” His eyes flicker to Marian’s; she looks down. “You wanna tell her, or shall I?”

Marian sighs, and leans her head against yours. “Varric, if you tell the story we’ll be here all year. And we don’t have all year. I give it ten minutes before Sister Nightingale decides she can’t not tell people about me anymore.”

You take your sister’s image in properly for the first time. Granted, you’ve seen her look - and smell - much worse. She stinks of horses, is unsteady on her feet, and she’s managed to get a sunburn again. Not hard; the two of you burn in five minutes of sunlight. It’s her eyes that make you concerned. They remind you of...oh, Maker. They remind you of the day the Chantry exploded.

“Hey,” you murmur, tugging on her hand and pulling her into your arms. “What happened?”

“The Wardens. The ones that helped when the Qunari attacked. I went after them, after...everything. Wanted to say thank you. Do something  _ good _ for once. Killing darkspawn seemed like a good enough - don’t look at me like that, sis, I don’t mean I wanted to go  _ become _ one. I just wanted to...they get it. All the things we carry around that we can’t drop.”

You lift one hand and stroke her hair. She’s hacked it far too short this time. None of it tumbles into her eyes like it should, and it’s uneven, like she no longer cares. The ends are blunt. It must be recent, but why? Marian loves her hair.

“Did you find them?” you prompt, when she goes quiet for too long.

She nods. “Yeah. I found them. That’s - that’s where I’ve been. With them. Some of them. Mostly one of them.”

It’s hard not to be frustrated - she’s basically handed you a pile of gaps rather than a story - but you can feel her hand shaking.  _ Marian’s _ hand. It’s not that she doesn’t get afraid. She’s been terrified since the day the Blight came. But she doesn’t show it. She never shows it. She cracks jokes. It’s what she does.

“I don’t understand,” you say, because there’s not much else you can say.

With a tug, Marian pulls you down onto the floor. You’ve extended your barrier absentmindedly to include her - after a moment’s concentration, and as he sits down on Marian’s other side, you extend it to include Varric too.

“Something’s wrong with them,” Marian says, her voice softening. She plucks a folded up note from inside her shirt. “I don’t know what, exactly. It’s bad. It’s really bad. They’re vanishing and he doesn’t know why, and I can’t lose…”

“Shit, Hawke.”

You weren’t expecting Varric’s voice, so it startles you - making you sit upright on the stone. “What?” you ask, looking between them in concern.

“Varric, don’t.”

“Don’t what? I know that look.” His own face is dark with anger. “I also know what happened the last time you jumped into bed with a Grey Warden.”

Everything happens very quickly. The three of you are on your feet; Marian’s fists are clenched white, and Varric has rolled out of the way. His hands are in front of him, Marian’s fists are drawn up ready to throw - and they get stuck like that. Your prisons wrap around them simultaneously, the frigid cold of the battlements rushing back in as you expend all of that power to hold the two of them still. It doesn't hurt them. Not in the slightest. You learned to control this spell long ago.

They can’t move anything but their eyes, all of which fall to land upon you, rage fading to astonishment.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you sigh, gesturing with the hand not sustaining the spells. “I had enough of this back in Kirkwall. Now, I am going to release you one at a time. First of all.” You drop the prison on Varric and give him father’s glare - the one that everyone thinks only Marian can do. “You will bloody well apologise to her right now, Varric Tethras.”

“Shit.”

“That’s a terrible apology. Try again.”

“Chuckles,” Varric grumbles, leaning back against the wall, “your sister is fucking terrifying.”

“I’m still not hearing an apology, Varric,” you point out.

He exhales sharply. “I shouldn’t have bought him up. I’m sorry, Hawke. I just - I don’t know if I can get you through that all over again.”

The gleam that had shone in Marian’s eyes when Varric had called you terrifying vanishes. Her eyes cast down, and she strains against the prison. She can’t break it, but you let it fade anyway, allowing her to nod.

“He’s not Anders, Varric.”

Something shifts in Marian’s bearing, and you notice what Varric did. Her exhaustion - it’s not just physical. It’s not even mental. It’s the fear that something terrible has happened to someone you love. The desperate need to get to them and fix it.

“Oh, Marian,” you sigh, shaking the pins and needles from your hands and hugging her tightly. An unexpected feeling surges in your chest, and bubbles up as laughter. It’s hope. “I thought you’d never be able to -”

“Me too.”

“You really love this Warden?”

Marian chuckles, and you feel her shoulders relax. “His jokes are worse than mine.”

“Maker preserve us. I was going to tell you that we’d do everything to save him, but now I think we might be doing the world a favour by - ow!”

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Beth.”

You grin, and kiss the top of her head. “Carver wouldn’t have been. Someone has to fill in for him sometimes.”

“Well I almost punched Varric in the face just then,” Marian smirks, “so I suppose he’ll do. Right, little brother?”

Varric groans so deeply that the three of you are still giggling when the Inquisitor comes around the corner. Disentangling yourself from Marian - only on the promise that you’ll see each other again soon - you curtsey to Herah and make your way back to the library.

\---

You manage to see your sister again only briefly before she rides ahead of the Inquisitor to Crestwood. She claims to be going early just to meet the Inquisitor there, but there’s a smirk twitching at the corner of her lips. You suspect she’s going to see her Warden - who, predictably, Varric refuses to tell you anything about.

There’s some kind of altercation between the dwarf and the Seeker later on that day, but the Inquisitor breaks it up. She comes to warn you about it not long after - taking the hint, you make yourself scarce from the library, instead going to the gardens to talk to Ines and pray in the chapel.

Of course, it’s impossible to avoid Cassandra forever - she catches you as you’re trying to sneak along the battlements to the library. Apparently going through Cullen’s office isn’t a safe route anymore.

“Tell me that you did not know, Senior Enchanter,” she pronounces without preamble, stepping up to your side.

“I did not know.”

Cassandra narrows her eyes. “She is your sister. You must have.”

“You’re not the only person Varric keeps secrets from, Seeker,” you say mildly, eyes flickering briefly to the figure in the door behind her, attention no doubt caught by the woman's raised voice. “Commander! I’m so sorry that I’m late. Seeker, you must excuse me, I have an appointment to discuss some business with Commander Cullen.”

He looks at you oddly, head tilted, but schools the expression away by the time Cassandra turns.

“Ah. Yes. Very well. We will speak of this later, Senior Enchanter.”

“I am certain we will,” you say mildly, sweeping past her and into Cullen’s office. She doesn’t take her eyes off you until he’s closed the door behind you. “Maker’s breath. Thank you.”

“It is my sworn to protect the residents of Skyhold,” Cullen replies, “including from each other.”

There’s wry humour in the second half of his remark, but his voice is hoarse. You frown, looking at him as he moves slowly over to the desk. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s  _ fine. _ ”

“Yes, I too consider being unable to stand or open my eyes fully to be a completely normal state of affairs.”

He grimaces. “I begin to think having your sister here is a bad influence upon you, Senior Enchanter.”

“Cullen,” you say, more insistently, moving over to kneel beside his chair. “You don’t have to tell me what it is, but please at least tell me if there is anything I can do.”

“There isn’t.”

His hands are clenched over the armrests, and his reply comes to you through gritted teeth. You reach out and place a hand on his forearm, trying not to feel hurt when he flinches. It isn’t disgust. He’s changed. You know that. He doesn’t think you inhuman.

“If you will swear that to me in Andraste’s name,” you say calmly, burying the fear, “I will leave you alone.”

That makes him wince even more, so you tighten your grip, trying to show him every inch of your concern with a single, firm hand. Closing his eyes, Cullen bows his head and exhales slowly.

And says nothing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

“Do you know why I handed myself in to you, specifically?” you ask the silence. He does not open his eyes, but he tenses, head tilting to listen. “It was the way Marian described you. She told me, when she found you trying to help the trainees, the ones who were possessed - she said you  _ behaved _ like a Templar, that you  _ behaved _ like you didn’t care a bit, but that your face was all anguish. That somehow, no matter what you said, she knew that more than anything else you cared about people.”

He laughs, if you can call it that - a single, sharp exhalation of sound. “Your sister hates me.”

“She hates that I surrendered to you. She doesn’t understand; she never will. The Circle made me feel safe. Even Kirkwall. Because there were people there who were like you.” You reach out your other hand and, not really thinking, brush your fingertips against the scratchy skin of his cheek. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

At first you think you’ve done something terrible, because he freezes. Then, with one sharp movement, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, trapping the hand lightly touching his face. His eyes are still closed. He breathes in again; out again. Once, twice.

“You will not think the same of me when I do,” he says, fingers rippling on your skin as he tightens his grip. “I know that I do not.”

“You are afraid of yourself.”

His eyes screw even more tightly shut. “Terrified.”

“I know what that’s like,” you whisper, shuffling closer. The floor is hard against your knees but you don’t care. It feels like the floor in the Gallows, the day they Harrowed you, the day you flayed the demon that dared to take your father's face. It feels appropriate.

“I suppose that you do.”

“Please,” you say again, moving the hand on his forearm to force its way around his fingers. “Tell me.”

Cullen takes a deep breath; you feel his exhale warm against the hand he has trapped. “I stopped taking lyrium when I left Kirkwall.”

Oh, Maker.

It all makes sense, so much sense, and all at once. How exhausted he looks. The sallow tint to his skin. Eyes closing - he has a headache. The light is hurting him. Lyrium withdrawal happens to mages who take too many potions, and they aren’t fully addicted, not in the same way, what it must be doing to him is…

You take your own deep breath. And listen.

By the time he’s finished telling you - everything, about the dreams and the fear he’ll lose control of himself and the pain and the fatigue - there are tears rolling down your cheeks that you haven’t bothered to brush away. Won’t brush away, not if it means letting go of the tight grip your hands have on his. His fingers entwine with yours just as tightly, and you suspect that if you weren’t holding him the tremors would be even worse.

“Okay,” you whisper, when he sags, secrets laid out plain between you. “What do we do?”

“...we?”

“In my family, Commander Rutherford, we take owing your life to someone very seriously. And I distinctly remember being trapped in a room, with a dozen apprentices, with no ability to cast thanks to the Templar who had charged into the doorway to kill us. Just incase the  _ children _ had developed a taste for blood magic. Just because he could. And I remember that he raised his sword to strike me, and it fell from his hands, because there was another sword poking through his chest.”

“Bethany -”

“You saved my life. You saved all of those children. They are not here to thank you for it, but I am, and I will, and nothing that you can say will stop me. So I ask you again, Commander. What. Do. We. Do?”

Lifting his head and wincing at the light, Cullen looks at you. He lets out a huff of breath, glassy eyes locking with yours, his gaze shifting to take in the fresh wave of tears turning your cheeks glossy.

“I think,” he says softly, “you ought to start calling me by my first name.”

\---

You know something is wrong the day Marian returns to Skyhold, because she doesn’t even try to hide the sandy-haired man at her side. Normal Marian, happy Marian, playful Marian would have strung you along refusing to let you meet the man whose life means so much that she would punch Varric to defend his honour. She would have teased you with his presence as relentlessly as she and Isabela used to tease each other.

You listen; you don’t expect what they tell you.

“Demons?”

The word falls from your lips shakily, your hands tightening around your staff, pulling the pale wood closer to you. As if cradling it against your side will stop you from tumbling back into the dark place within your mind. But Marian sees it; Marian knows it; Marian catches you, like she always will.

“Beth. I’m here. It’s okay. Yes, demons. They’re calling them into the Wardens - the ones who aren’t -” she glances over her shoulder at the man with her. “Mages.”

“Oh, Maker.”

Marian’s Warden clears his throat. “They’re gathering an army for - ah, Corypheus.”

Your first thought is  _ well, that’s awkward _ . You hadn’t gone with Marian to defeat him, but it was father’s blood - your blood, your cursed magic blood - that had sealed him, and...Andraste’s grace. Is nothing ever simple, when it comes to your family?

“Hello, by the way,” he adds, with a wave as awkward as the situation. “Hawke’s told me all about you.”

Despite everything, you smile slightly. He does seem nice. But there’s so little  _ time. _ They tell you about the plan, about the fortress, about everything that’s happened, and all the way through it you watch them. Watch the way Marian relaxes her guard, the paranoia that has been with her constantly since Kirkwall, ever so slightly. Watch the fact that Alistair forces extra jokes in whenever she’s getting upset.

Then the Inquisitor appears, smiling apologetically. “Senior Enchanter, I’m afraid I need to borrow your sister and the Warden.”

“I wasn’t aware we needed Bethany’s permission for me to go anywhere,” Marian remarks wryly, “let alone Alistair.”

You cover your mouth with a hand, but the smile behind it quickly turns to a frown. So little time. Stepping forward, you pull Marian into a tight hug, her protests muffled against your curls. Then you reach out and clasp Alistair’s hand.

“Warden,” you say, with your brightest most brilliant smile, and thoughts of Carver swelling in your heart, “if you do not look after my sister, if you do not care for her as intensely as she deserves, I will slowly and deliberately unravel every thread of your spirit. I will take those threads, and I will weave them into an enchantment. On a brush. So that you can scrub toilets for all eternity. Do you understand?”

He looks at you with wide eyes for a long moment, then laughs. “You know,” he says, grinning, “you really are terrifying.”

Good, you think.

It’s exactly Carver would have wanted.

\---

Rumours fly around Skyhold so virulently that neither you nor Fiona can keep the mages focused on their work. Vivienne is ensconced with the Inquisitor and the rest of the Inner Circle, and Ines has (quite sensibly, if you’re honest) hidden herself within the gardens. Eventually you give up, and sit in groups with mages young and old, waiting to find out when the soldiers will be marching.

No answer comes, so when evening falls, you pull yourself out of the awful limbo of not knowing and march across the battlements to Cullen’s office. Four scouts are on their way out as you arrive, along with a grim faced Leliana and an overwhelmed looking Inquisitor. You try to turn your frown into an expression of concern as Herah passes, but she isn't looking at you. She's too busy staring at the Anchor, trying to will it away with her gaze.

Behind them, you spot Cullen in the doorway again. He looks like he wants to scream. You've been here so short a time, yet the burdens in his face make you, too, feel like it's been years. He steps back and lets you into the office, leaving you to close the door behind you.

And has to repeat his next statement three times. Even then, it doesn't go into your head.

“Tomorrow?” you say, the word not fully forming, and trailing off partway through.

Cullen sighs and rubs the back of his neck again. “Yes.”

“That - that’s a terrible idea, Cullen. You’re exhausted. The plans we’ve put in place for you haven’t even begun to give you respite yet. The withdrawal -”

“Will  _ not _ keep me from serving the Inquisition,” he snaps, not looking remorseful. He strides around the desk and, pulling his hand from his neck, places it on your shoulder. No - on the place where your shoulder meets your neck, his thumb curling to rest just below your jaw. “I will do everything I can to keep your people safe.”

So you aren't going. That isn't surprising - you're not part of the troop detachments, even the mage ones - but it still hurts the part of you that used to hunt the Carta in Darktown with your family. You sigh. He doesn't get it.

“I wasn’t insulting your competence. That’s not what I meant at all.”

“What else could you have meant?”

“I’m - I'm worried about you, you...absolute idiot! Maker, I swear, I don’t know why I bother with Templars. So few of you are actually good and the ones who are good are stubborn as all hell.”

“Bethany,” he says, his voice softening. His hand is still on your shoulder; his fingers tense around it, warm and firm. “I will be fine. I promise.”

You close your eyes and bow your head. “You can’t promise me that, and you know it.”

“I...no.”

His reply, soft and sincere, hurts in a way you don't expect. A way you recognise, but never prepared for. A way that barely touches your mind, occurring as it does entirely within your heart.

Fuck.

Gently, you pluck his hand from your shoulder and hold it between yours. You squeeze it once, cold fingers tight, then let it drop as you turn away. Deep breaths. You can’t control everything, no matter how much you’d like to.

You wrap your arms around yourself and ask, “Do you have a boat?”

“Pardon?”

“A boat. For me to shove you into. You’re quite welcome to call me all the names I called you, if you think it’s fair.”

You don’t look back at him, but hear him shift. “And may I also,” he asks, warm amusement lacing his words, “sneak past you to go back into the place you so bravely helped me escape?”

You laugh. You shouldn’t, because laughter can too easily become tears, and that thing in your heart is wrenching inside you at the thought that something might happen to him. A Templar, of all things. Not just any Templar, but the very Templar who took you into the Gallows in the first place. A man who once described you as  _ not a person _ and now spends his days fighting to ensure that all people, including you, can live in a world that is safe. The only Templar your sister ever thought might be redeemable.

“Only if you don’t make me say goodbye.”

“Bethany…”

“I mean it,” you say, holding your trembling hands together as you look at the door that you must walk out of, away from him. “I won’t do it.”

Light, gentle fingertips brush against the shell of your ear, tucking a stray lock of hair away. “Bethany.”

You open your eyes. He’s right in front of you, and suddenly you’re aware of just how tall he is, and how tight the knot in your chest is. “What?”

“If - if I have misinterpreted this, then - then I beg your forgiveness, but I -”

“...yes?”

His hand shifts, cupping your cheek, why is his skin so warm?

“Put me in the boat,” Cullen says, taking a half-step forward. The fur of his coat is brushing against you now, he’s so close. “Put me in the boat, even though you know I’m going to get out again. Please.”

You kiss him.

There’s a strange thing that happens when you cast some Spirit spells. You’ve always theorised that opening the world to the Fade like that distorts things - whether it’s just your perception of them, or the actuality. It’s like a juddering in the passage of time. Things slow down, speed up, do both in quick and randomised succession. This happens now, the moment you catch his lips against yours, as his other hand stretches slowly forward to reach for you. In that moment, you see yourselves, younger, in the rain, the children already in the boat and sobbing with fear.

You hadn’t kissed him then, but a small part of you had wanted to. That same small part flourishes now, both in vindication to its release, and in submission to the fact that the Gallows was not the place you were meant to do that. This is. Now that you are no longer a prisoner and prison warden. Now that you are just people, in another war you didn’t ask for but got caught up in nonetheless, trying to protect everything you love.

When time speeds up again, you are no longer in control. Cullen presses himself against you urgently, kissing you back with a passion you hadn’t fully expected, but had desperately hoped for. A voice in the back of your head tells you that this is mad, that he’s still a Templar, that this is too much and too fast. You ignore it. He pushes the heavy weight of your skirts up to your waist, your back against the desk, you’ll have bruises there in the morning. You hope you’ll have bruises there in the morning. You want to remember him in every way that you can, and that scares you, but you've been scared since the first day you felt magic tingling in your fingers.

He cradles you in a terrified vice grip every second that he makes love to you, the contents of his desk now scattered across the ground, replaced by the body you press against his with every muscle that you have. Neither of you mentions the tears that scatter on his shoulder, and neither of you tries to draw the moment out further. You reach for each other and take what you need and then slump down to the ground, still holding on tightly.

Not long after that you stumble into his bed; too soon after that he gets out of the boat you have made and runs back into the war you’ve failed to save him from. It takes everything that you have to tear yourself from the scent of him, just in time to say goodbye to your sister.

“Don’t look so glum, Bethany,” Marian quips, mashing a kiss against the top of your head and leaping on her horse. “Someone’s got to hold down the fort.”

You open your mouth to tell her that isn’t why you’re worried, but she’s already gone.

\---

Things change.

They don't change in the way you expect.

\---

Skyhold is so quiet. No one knows what is happening. A few ravens come and go between the tower and Adamant, but whatever information they contain is closely guarded by Leliana’s people. All of the soldiers are gone bar those few required to keep the fortress safe - which isn’t many, all things considered. Most of the staff are left without much to do. It doesn’t take the entire complement of servants to care for those of you who remain, or themselves.

You have waited whilst Marian has gone out on missions before, of course. But those were not sieges. Those did not involve armies, and people who should be allies, and demons - okay, they involved all of those things, but not to this scale. And she was closer. Much closer. The wait was never this long. The limbo of not knowing was never this hard, even once you were in the Circle.

Some days you do nothing, because you can do nothing. Some days you conduct great audits of all of the mages’ resources. Some days you just hide in the library and read and read and read until your eyes hurt. Some days you sneak into Cullen’s room and curl up in his bed, lamenting that you can no longer smell him in the sheets, because the servants have been changing them even though no one is meant to be sleeping here.

The day news comes that the siege has broken, that victory has been won and the Grey Wardens have joined the Inquisition, you are in the library searching for a way to spread your warming barrier to a place rather than a person. No more news comes than that, no details, but it’s enough for everyone - you included - to take to the Herald’s Rest with too many tankards and not enough sleep.

By comparison, the remaining days fly past, as Skyhold prepares itself to receive the troops. Expecting heavy casualties, you help the surgeons expand their tents as much as is possible, taking over the whole area where the merchants are usually set up, with just a single path passing through to the stables. 

You stand on the battlements with some of the younger mages as the army begins to arrive, doing what you can to shield them from the cold wind as row after row of soldiers file into the fortress. With each passing moment, your eyes scour the column of wounded, exhausted people, looking for the figures of those you know.

The apprentices have gotten bored and cold and gone back downstairs by the time you spot something you recognise: a tall figure on a horse that would be best described as monstrous, her face a storm. Herah. You watch as she charges alongside the column, overtaking a hundred soldiers within moments to disappear beneath the wall you stand on. 

Is this the moment that you realise something is wrong? Perhaps. Perhaps it isn’t until you turn to see her running up the stairs beside you, the few people who were with you vanishing at the sight of her expression. Something has happened to her; something terrible.

“Inquisitor?” you ask, gently, when she doesn’t say anything. Your gaze has torn entirely from the soldiers now, resting instead on her agonised expression.

Herah drops onto one knee. It makes you just about the same height - her an inch or two shorter than you, your eyes almost level. It feels like your heart drops out of your chest when she does.

“I had to tell you myself,” the Inquisitor says, low voice hoarse.

There are words that come after that. Of that you’re certain. What they were, you do not remember. You do not recall their form, their shape, their sound. All that you remember of the Inquisitor’s words is the feeling of them. The way each word took another dagger and stabbed it again inside you. The way those daggers twisted. Deeper, deeper, sharper. You trap one between your palms and all it does is cut a new place into that inescapable trap of grief.

By the time your mind catches up, the only thing you can think is: this doesn’t make sense. Marian survives everything. Everything. She survived Ostagar, the Blight, Carver dying, mother dying, the Qunari, the Arishok, all of bloody Kirkwall. She survived drinking contests with Isabela and Varric. She survived having her heart torn apart by the man she loved, and she survived the war he started, and -

This doesn’t make sense.

Herah is still on one knee, still talking, still saying things that don’t go into your mind. Until she says something that you think she may have said several times before: “I had to choose. I had to.”

You wet your lips with your tongue and look at her. “You chose wrong,” you say, flicking the fingers of your left hand.

The gesture is small, but the Inquisitor isn’t stupid. She gets her own hand up just in time as your spell rushes towards her, her magic creating a barrier that isn’t enough to stop your own spell from pushing her back. You cast again, again, again - she’s halfway down the stairs now, both hands held up to keep her from flying back as if whipped up by a hurricane. You do not use spells that will hurt her. You just push her, push her as far away from you as you can, until her barrier falters and your spell pins her to the wall.

“B-Bethany,” the Inquisitor manages to get out through the force of your spell.

You snap the connection, whipping the control over your magic back into your hands. Your curls are standing on end with the trembling of your skin; against the oncoming dusk, your body glows.

Before he died, the First Enchanter taught you a trick to get the attention of unruly students. A way to spread your voice just a little within the Fade, to amplify it. You weave that into every word that you spit at the collapsed, panting Inquisitor.

“You will not speak my name. You will not speak hers. You will not come near me. You will not talk to me. You will not look at me. You have made me the last Hawke, Inquisitor. So from today, the name of Hawke is dead to you.”

\---

Everything blurs after that.

You know that you run across flagstones, feet unsteady, boots doing the work to keep you stable. You know that there is the smooth wood of a doorknob and the sudden absence of wind and the hard lines of a bookcase against your back. Comforting. Safe. You always hid in the library in the Gallows. The library there was small but had books and a chessboard and safety. You looked like you were meant to be there even when you weren’t.

Your hands are around your knees, your knees up to your chest, you can’t breathe properly. Every inch of your skin is thrumming with the rest of the magic you didn’t hurl at the Inquisitor. There is a soft hum in the air. It might be in your head. It might be sounding out loud. You should be terrified of it, of this lack of control, but there is just...nothing.

Until the creak and click of a door and the thud of footprints.

“...said they’d seen her go this way, after - shit. Curly, she’s in here. She’s here, I’ve got her.”

Then hands, gloved and rough and large and resting over yours. Words that don’t have shape but mean safety. Words that echo the hole in your heart, the ache in your chest, the screams that won’t come out of your throat. Varric. Oh Maker, Varric.

The moment you realise you look up, take in every inch of his anguished face, grab him by the hands and pull him in until you can hold him with arms and legs and sobs all at once. He keeps talking - words you’ve already heard from the Inquisitor, softer, with the same broken sound that rattles in every fibre of your being.

At some point he moves; at some point different arms lift you, carry you, but the world is so grey without your sister that you barely even notice anything has changed.

\---

“I didn’t know if you would want anything,” a voice is saying, as you come out of yourself and look up at the night sky. “But I thought perhaps you - that it might - Maker, I don’t know what to say, Bethany, I don’t know what to do.”

Your eyes come to focus on the tray that has been placed beside the bed. It looks haphazard, like someone went into the kitchens and picked up everything a person might ever conceivably crave. Tiny Orlesian cakes sit next to fat Ferelden pies amidst cured Antivan meats. There are four tankards, too, though you can’t quite tell in the dim light whether they contain different liquids.

Shifting, you roll onto your back and look up at the ceiling. At the hole in it.

“You really should get that fixed,” you say, voice hoarse from disuse, or sleep, or crying, or perhaps all three.

Cullen laughs in relief, reaching out to take your hand. The touch draws your gaze to him, knelt where he is beside the bed, the tray of ridiculous food just in front of him. “With all of the requisition orders I have to write,” he admits, “I’ve never been able to face just one more.”

Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, you pull on his arm to sit up. Your head is thick and dizzy. “How long was I asleep?”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Cullen admits, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside you. He avoids resting against you, so you curl a little closer. The closer you are, the safer you are.

You take a deep breath. “Alright. Have you slept? Where is Varric, is he alright? And - and Alistair, where is he?”

Taking your other hand, Cullen holds you steady as you start trying to get up. For a moment you worry he won’t answer any of your questions, but then he says, calmly, “I have slept a little. As much as I could. Varric is downstairs - we had a bedroll bought up for him. He said your family needed to be together. Alistair rode to Weisshaupt to tell them what happened.”

“Has Varric slept? Or eaten? We can’t let him just drink, he’ll -”

“Bethany.”

“-yes?”

“I will answer any question you have, so long as you eat something, and drink something.”

As he says this, Cullen squeezes your hands gently, and your heart breaks just a little bit more. There is mud on his cheeks. He stinks of the ride here. And - you adjust your fingers - yes. Tremors.

“Okay,” you say, rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb. “But you have to eat as well.”

He smiles tiredly at you, and nods.

\---

It is Fiona, of all people, who arrives to tell you that she’ll cover anything you were meant to be doing. Her eyes are glassy as she insists upon it, voice thick with an emotion that you can’t quite place. She was a Warden; it must be that. More people come to see Varric than you, though Ines brings you a spray of flowers that she says mean sorrow and love across different cultures. You put them in a tankard on Cullen’s desk. The one time a soldier dares to comment upon it, he gives them a death glare Marian would’ve been proud of.

It hurts to talk about her in the past tense, but when Cullen is working, you and Varric lie in the loft, telling stories about Kirkwall, because the memories make it feel like you haven’t let her go. Sometimes, between meetings and when he tears himself away from his desk, Cullen joins in, telling you about the many times he’d been convinced your sister was going to kill him. There were, it turns out, a lot more of them than you’d thought.

Somehow, a boy with a ridiculous hat manages to sneak Varric a hammer and nails, as well as enough planks of wood for you to close the hole in the ceiling. It won’t be completely watertight, but it’s a damn sight better than a giant gap. You hammer it in yourselves when Cullen is in the War Room for a meeting. When he gets back, he shakes his head at you, then produces the chocolate that he snuck out of the kitchens on his way. You suspect he made contacts amongst the servants when you started making him eat regularly.

And then there are the letters. So many of them. With Leliana’s help, you manage to find almost everyone there is to tell. Merrill’s letter is smudged from tears. Isabela’s contains more swear words than anything else. Almost everyone (though mostly Fenris) pledges to come and kill either the demon that killed her or the Inquisitor for sending her to die.

Alistair’s letter is short, and hurts most of all. It just says:  _ it should have been me. _

You cradle it in your hand, tears running down your face.

“I was already through the rift,” Varric says quietly, looking down at the note. “But I asked the Inquisitor. She said he volunteered to stay. The moment he did, Chuckles stabbed him in the leg.”

Laughter that feels fittingly like knives tears at your chest. “Oh, sister.”

“Stormcloud didn’t have a choice, Sunshine. Hawke had already decided she wasn’t going to let him die.”

You screw your eyes shut and let the sobs the laughter became fade. When they die down, you rub your face clean and take a deep breath. “Varric,” you say, opening your eyes, “I need paper. I need to tell him - so many things.”

You’ve barely finished speaking and Varric is already pressing parchment and quill into your hands. The letter comes out wild and disjointed, but that isn’t what matters. What matters is telling this man you barely know that he is part of your family. That you don’t blame him. That there is an army of Free Marchers who will fight anything that so much as thinks about hurting him.

Varric cradles the letter in his hands, and kisses you on the cheek as he slips out to send it via Leliana.

\---

“Cullen?”

“I didn’t realise you were awake.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were,” you chuckle, wriggling closer to him. “Your feet are cold.”

He presses his lips to your forehead. “That,” he replies in a low murmur, “would be because you steal the blankets.”

“You snore.”

“As do you, though I was under the impression it was impolite to mention it.”

A pause.

“What are we doing?”

He shifts slightly. You find yourself wishing you hadn’t dealt with the hole in the ceiling - the moonlight might’ve let you see his face. Instead you have only the vague sense of a shape to show you his outline.

After a long moment, he says, “You don’t mean right now.” His voice is low, and quiet, though it’s not like there’s anyone nearby. Varric has gone back to his own room, now.

You catch your bottom lip in your teeth. “I don’t.”

“Bethany,” Cullen says, pressing his lips to your forehead, your nose, your cheek. “I will not leave you alone. Not now. Not without her. You need not fear that, not from me.”

“I...that...I wasn’t worried about that, but thank you.” You kiss him, curling your fingers into his hair. “Really. I was - that is, I’ve been thinking - Maker, I sound like you, I can barely get a sentence out.”

His laughter is full-throated and makes you warm from head to toe; it only serves to exacerbate your shyness. You quickly find yourself grateful for the darkness instead, because your cheeks must be bright red. Cullen says nothing, instead just holding you closely until you finally seem ready to try talking again.

“I don’t think I would be okay if you and Varric hadn’t kept me hidden in here. I am so glad that you let me do that. I am so grateful. And I don’t think I’m ready to go outside yet, but I know at some point I have to, and as soon as I started thinking about going outside I started thinking about the future, and I...I don’t know what it looks like anymore.”

“The future?”

“Yes.”

Cullen sighs into your hair. “I wish I knew. I fear none of us will know until Corypheus is defeated.”

“Then what would you want, from a future? If that day comes, and he’s gone, and everyone is...free?”

The pause before he answers you is long enough that fear claws at your throat. It had been there before, quiet, so small in comparison to the grief and the rage and the pain. But now it seems the only thing you can pay attention to, as Cullen’s hands move to gently brush curls out of your eyes, as if wanting to see you better even in the darkness.

“On that day, Bethany Hawke,” he whispers, “I will get into the boat with you, and we will sail wherever we want, and nothing shall break us ever again.”

Your heart swells so much that your magic lights up the room, illuminating his earnest, enraptured face.

And something inside you starts to knit back together.

\---

“I need you to help me sneak into the Inquisitor’s rooms,” you tell Varric two weeks later, when you feel steady enough to step out of Cullen’s tower.

He eyes you levelly. “If you’re going to hurt her, Sunshine, we’re going to have a problem.”

“Varric,” you smile, shaking your head, “I want to apologise to her.”

“Oh! Well, then. Follow me, milady Hawke. I’m always happy to apply my roguish charms.”

Of course it isn’t as simple as just being quiet. Varric enlists Sera to help him with creating a mildly terrifying distraction that allows you to slip through the Great Hall and up onto the landing. You’re aware it involves bees, and that’s enough to make you not want to know the whole details. Even Vivienne has abandoned her usual spot, looking out over the balcony into the hall rather than watching as you move your way past.

You’re glad you packed a book. The Inquisitor is a busy woman, and you have to wait for several hours for her to arrive. It seems presumptuous to sit at the Herald of Andraste’s desk, but it seems like it would be even more presumptuous to sit on her bed - so you choose the lesser of the two transgressions and settle in for a long wait. As you read, you ponder whether this is amongst the most ridiculous ideas you’ve ever had.

The entire affair is worth it, if nothing else, for the astonished look on Herah Adaar’s face.

She ends up stuck in the doorway, one horn caught on the frame, a dozen unfinished words caught on her tongue. Doing your best not to laugh, you place your book on the desk and move over to help her.

“Please,” the Inquisitor says, when you have her unstuck and in her own chambers, “let’s never speak of that again.”

You tuck your knuckles against your mouth to hide the smile there, eyes sparkling. “Of course, your worship.”

“I...why are you here, Senior Enchanter?”

“Would you sit? This is your room, I should not really be inviting you to sit, I know. But sit, please?”

She does, though she looks tense and on edge. You can hardly blame her. The last time you saw her, you threw her down a flight of stone stairs. “I see you’ve made yourself at home,” she observes.

You decide it would be best not to mention how long you’ve been here.

“Varric told me what happened. All of what happened. Herah, I am so sorry you went through that.”

The Inquisitor blinks, then tilts her head, then sits forward in her chair. “You? You are sorry?”

You smile. “It’s something people joke about. If you had to choose between two people, who would you pick? But no one ever has to live through that. No one ever really looks two people in the eye and tells them one of them will die and it’s your choice.”

“But I didn’t have to.” The Inquisitor’s voice is a low croak. “Your sister chose for me.”

“Yes. She did.”

“I...am grateful for it. I should not be. What kind of person am I, to be glad that someone would die for me? For this?” She waves her left hand, sending sparks of veilfire flying. “What kind of person is grateful for that?”

“The kind of person who has reason to be grateful,” you reply, with a small smile. “Would you like to know what my sister would say to you, if she were here?”

Herah nods, silently.

“She would say, first of all - you’d better fucking be grateful. And then she would say - I didn’t do it for you.”

“Ah.”

“It isn’t your fault, Herah.”

Her eyes flicker up. “It is my responsibility. They were under my command. They were my team. And I failed one of them. A leader should stop their soldiers from being really fucking stupid.”

You hide your smile behind your hand, but it isn’t enough to stifle the laughter. “Oh, Maker, I’m sorry. It’s just - she really was ridiculously stupid, sometimes.”

“You should have seen his face,” the qunari replies, half in laughter and half in agony. “She left her dagger in his leg. In his leg. I had to carry him through the rift.”

“Our family tends to do things very intensely.”

“You threw me down the stairs in front of half of my army.”

Blushing, you look down at your hands. “Yes, well. At the time I thought you deserved it.”

“You do not now?” Herah asked, astonished.

You shake your head. “No. Now, amongst the many reasons that I wish my sister was alive is the desire to push  _ her _ down the stairs.” Turning, you reach down beside your chair and produce the second item you bought with you. “I bought you a peace offering.”

As you place the bottle of wine down on the desk beside you, the Inquisitor grins that wide, scar-twisted smile. It’s her favourite. You know; you checked with Josie before you came up here. By the third glass, you’ve learned quite a lot more about Herah Adaar, not the least of which is that she has absolutely atrocious taste in wine.

\---

The world is not the same without your sister. It will never be the same again.

But the day you concede defeat and move all of your belongings from the mage quarters into Cullen’s office - because everyone already knows anyway - you find him ripping planks from the hole in his ceiling.

“Cullen! Varric and I worked very hard on that. Do you have any idea how hard it is to reach up there when you’re our heights?”

To his credit, Cullen does look mildly apologetic. But then he finishes tearing off the last plank and places it neatly in the pile by his feet. With two strides, he steps over and takes the sack of clothes from your hand, placing it on the bed, and with the other hand he pulls you to look out of the newly restored hole in the ceiling.

“It reminds me of you,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

You blink, and cock your head to the side, a confused smile turning your lips. “The broken hole in your roof. Reminds you of me?”

“Without this roof, this tower would not be safe. Without this roof, we would be cold and wet and shivering. Without this roof I would, I suspect, be quite alone.” Cullen smiles lopsidedly, scarred lip curling upwards. “Yes, it has a hole in it. No, it cannot protect me from everything. But it is here, and it is trying, and through those broken gaps you can see the sunrise in the morning. Yes, it reminds me of you, Bethany.”

He draws you close to him; you feel the sunlight warm on your skin. The wind that whips in through the gap is cold, a strange contrast, but Cullen wraps you tightly in his arms and turns to shield you from it.

And all you manage to say is: “Oh.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you ever so much for reading this little one-shot, which popped into my head and refused to go away. Hope you enjoyed it! <3


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